


wait for me, please hang around

by magichistorian



Category: Hello Charlotte (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, College, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 03:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18792295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magichistorian/pseuds/magichistorian
Summary: At 16, Charles Eyler saved Vincent's life and breathed like his whole life before then was spent inhaling factory waste. Maybe it was. Maybe it was.--Or, a timeline through Charles Eyler's life in which things go better and he gets something of a happy ending he didn't think he would ever get.





	wait for me, please hang around

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this whole thing this morning after an immense amount of feels from Anri's diary, this for my buddies in the discord!! 
> 
> Enjoy!

At 15, Charles Eyler was falling apart. Were the words he said his own? Were his hands shaking or was he just hallucinating again? It was impossible to tell. Was someone talking to him? Was it a real person? He didn't know how to breathe. He didn't know if anything but his empty lungs and bloody heart were alive. 

At 16, Charles Eyler had a job. He could eat. He could afford medication. He could breathe. He couldn't remember every spot on Scarlett's face anymore. He wouldn't forget it completely though. Never. 

At 16, Charles Eyler saved Vincent's life and breathed like his whole life before then was spent inhaling factory waste. Maybe it was. Maybe it was. 

It wasn't perfect. The fog was not always gone and his hands didn't look like Anri's. White, clean. (How clean were they? Or was it as much of a lie as anything?) But Vincent was alive. God was not dead and he could hear words spoken outside his own head once again. 

He was alive. He could look at a person and see another person. He wasn't alone with Vincent after all.

At 17, Anri Warhol moved away and Charles Eyler almost forgot how to breathe again. He didn't see as many faces. But Vincent's face was real. 

Charles was sure the faint memory that so greatly eluded him from one of his worse days was Vincent, his face (white, kind, real) becoming real again. He was always human, but sometimes he was hard to see. Too bright. It was probably the pills, but if he remembered it as a touch of a god, that was nobody else's business. 

On a day where thoughts formed into words that made sense, that weren't wounds he wished he couldn't believe he wondered if Vincent regretted it. Being saved. Not everyone was Charles. Not everyone wanted to be saved (whatever that meant) with every fiber of their living body. But he couldn't let himself wonder. Vincent was the glue holding him together, the God of his world. 

 

Of course, Vincent had his own bad days. Days where he couldn't write a single word, days when his white scars wouldn't stay white, when Vincent wouldn't stay white. Days when he wouldn't answer a single message, and the fear built in Charles until he went and locked himself in Vincent's small room with the other boy so he knew he wouldn't run off to the roof. 

Vincent would cry and beg Charles to let him leave and Charles just sat there, cradling his small body, wondering if Vincent still believed in that world that would expand like the Big Bang from your corpse. Maybe he did. Maybe he just didn't know how else to comfort himself. 

Charles didn't know if he wanted to know. He wanted Vincent. He wanted him to stay, because he was weak. He knew he was too clingy, that he was jumping off a cliff with no parachute because he told himself that Vincent could always catch him and that one day he wouldn't catch him and he would hit the ground hard and never get up. God, he knew. But what else was there to do? So he stayed, and held him until the tears left and they knew how to breathe together.

At 18, Charles Eyler took an offer he didn't know he had. Therapy. The word rolled around in his mouth like a food that did not taste like it should. A bit too big and a bit too hard. But surprisingly sweet. He bit it. 

He had money. He ate meals again, and could talk and could breathe. Anri visited during a fall break and they went to the park and to the store and never once did he want to vomit. It was nice. It was fun. 

So one afternoon with every ounce of strength he had he made an appointment. The first time didn't do much. He stared, and counted his fingers, and studied the paint on the walls. But the nice woman didn't seem to care. She probably knew what she was doing. Eventually Vincent went too, and one day he started to realize it was his favorite day of the week. 

At 18, Lilith Eyler stopped breathing and Charles Eyler did too. He forgot what pills were and remembered Scarlett Eyler. Vincent found him the next day, bleeding, voice gone, huddled in the bathroom. Vincent held Charles' hand in his own small hand. His hands and wrists were scarred, the neat marks nothing like the ugly scars marring Charles' hands. Were they really that different? No. They were the same, deep down. The same. They said nothing and yet everything was said. 

Charles went to the nice woman two days a week for awhile. 

Charles graduated that spring. Despite everything, his gown remained white among the many black gowns. Huh. He could hardly remember school anymore. He had always had good grades though. He had hoped it would make people like him. It did, but like did not mean he mattered. Like meant he could be cheated off of, taken advantage of. He hadn't cared. People talked to him. 

But he didn't need those people any longer. He had Vincent, and he had Anri, even if she was small words on a screen, a warm body too far away to feel. 

Some days he wished he was Charlotte, his perfect protagonist, the perfect daughter. She would know how to talk to people. She would know how to be happy. Vincent would probably prefer someone like her. Mother would have been happier. But Charles was not Charlotte. And it felt nice, being able to feel like he could be himself. He had forgotten that feeling. 

He was getting here. For the first time in years, he wondered if a future was possible. He had food. He had medication. He had the nice lady who knew just what to say. He had Vincent. 

It was so unfamiliar. 

\---

"College?" He asked, his voice incredulous. 

"Yep!" Anri chirped over the phone. "My parents have enough money now, so I'm going, nowhere fancy, but I can finally go somewhere with my life. You should too. Community college isn't much. I think you need something to do. If you don't have something to focus on you'll crash again. You're doing so well. Do something simple. I know you can."

 

He went silent, deep in thought, until Anri asked if he was still there. 

“Sorry. I will think about it.”

“Great!” They exchanged a few more words, then goodbyes, secretly wondering how long it would be until they talked again.

Charles didn't know what to think. He did have enough money. After his mom died he still had the house. After Vincent graduated, he moved in. It made sense. And it was free. Charles couldn't bring himself to go into either of his parents' room, but neither of them minded sharing Charles'. 

They had gone too long without any real love, after all. Maybe they were too close. They didn't care. Having someone who understood right next to you was something neither of them knew how to deal with. But they would get there. They would. 

But between their jobs (Vincent got paid part time at the local library. Nothing made him happier, and nothing could make Charles happier than seeing Vincent happy. His real smiles were the rarest beauty on earth) and relatively low expenses, they could manage college. 

So at 19, Charles Eyler went to college.

\--- 

It was too much. Charles couldn't do it. 

He could. 

There were so many people. They were so loud.

He promised Vincent. 

Breathing was harder than it should be. 

He just needed a break. He would sit in the grass. Call Vincent.

The campus was a very open one, pathways and grass and trees everywhere. Charles shakily made his way to one of the trees where nobody else was around and slid to the ground. 

He pulled out his cell phone. Dialed the number he knew like his birthday. 

“Hey, Vince? Where are you?” He said once the call took. 

“In the library. Do you want me to come out?”

No. I don't want to bother you. I'm sure you're busy. I'm fine, I'll manage.

“...yes.” 

He could practically hear that white smile. 

“Just a few minutes, and I will be there. Are you at the same tree as the other day?”

“Yeah.”

They hung up, and Charles breathed slowly. Vincent was there 5 minutes and 25 seconds later. He wasn't counting. 

Vincent panted (he never did well at exercise) and sat down next to Charles. 

“There's a lot of people, huh.”

Charles nodded. “You're probably putting on your fakest smile and charming everyone, right?”

Vincent blushed. “I-”

“Don't worry. We all have our way that we manage. I hide. You put on a mask. We all have to find some way to pretend to be normal.”

Charles didn't ask if Vincent ever faked himself with him. Of course he did. Charles didn't, couldn't, blame him. What else could people who didn't know how to be real people do? Charles was happy enough knowing he had the chance to meet the real Vincent. That was all he needed. 

Hopefully he was enough for Vincent. 

\----

At 21, Vincent wrote his first novel. 

“It's about my universe birth theory,” he explained. “And you, actually.”

“Me?” Charles looked up from the countertop he was vigorously scrubbing. 

“Yes, it's about what I could imagine your world being, sort of. It's about Charlotte. It's about her living in the world you created while being led around by a young man named Seth. But,” he added at Charles’ face, “His role is that of a proper paternal figure. In the end, she discovers she is one of endless Charlottes created by your mother, the God in that world. You, as the creator of the universe, eventually destroy the world because the story you created becomes ruined by one of the Charlottes. Your sister and I are there too.”

“Really?” Vincent nodded. 

“But I won't tell you everything. Once I'm done, you will get to read it first.”

“Good.”

\--- 

A few months later, the book was done. 

When he read it, Charles wondered if that outcome -both of their suicides- was what Vincent expected. It was what he expected. He had no regrets. 

When the book was done, Charles sat for a long time. He felt a bit raw. The world Vincent had so delicately spun had stripped him to his core. It was surprisingly intimate. He was amazed by how well Vincent must have understood him to write such a personal story. 

A few minutes later Charles stood up and ran to the kitchen. As soon as he saw Vincent, he pulled him into a tight hug. 

“Charles?” He sounded confused, but wrapped his arms around Charles regardless. 

What would he say? He didn't know why he did that, he needed, he had to- “I love you.” He whispered.

Vincent said nothing, but the tightening of his grip said any words he was thinking. 

It was all they needed. They understood each other perfectly, no words were needed. 

 

At 23, Charles sat on the beach near his house, Vincent next to him, the summer sunset making his face glow. 

“This is where I planned to die,” Charles whispered. 

“I know.” Was all Vincent said. But he moved his hand and let Charles grip it anyway. 

They sat in silence. No words were needed. 

Things were good. They finished college, and had real jobs. Vincent's book sold well, and they were happy. They weren't perfect, but happy.

Charles still couldn't touch anybody else, and he still washed his hands for too long and had a hard time seeing Vincent as a normal, mortal person. Vincent still didn't know how to ask for help, and still tried to hide himself behind a smiling mask and couldn't keep a razor in the shower. 

But they were alive, and they were happy, and Charles Eyler has wondered how he had ever been able to breathe before in his life. 

All really did end well. There was nothing to be sad about.

**Author's Note:**

> If you didn't get it, the white gowns are used for the top 5% of students (at least at my school) 
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated :D


End file.
